


call me lover

by leadbitter



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M, POV Outsider, Softness Witnessed Accidentally
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 03:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20735174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leadbitter/pseuds/leadbitter
Summary: The angle of the door to the wall means that there’s no way either of them could possibly see Jonno without actively trying to, although even if they could, it wouldn’t matter one bit - especially with the way they’re looking at each other right now. Like nothing else exists in the world, like nothing else ever has or ever will.





	call me lover

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: this is a work of fiction and not intented to represent or speculate on the real lives of any person, only using their likeness to write a story.
> 
> 1k of absolutely nothing

The training ground is still at this time of day, late afternoon and peaceful. Only September but the sun is already starting to shift, swathes of bright sunlight replaced with an orange glow, dulled by incoming clouds. There’s a chill in the air, the kind that bites at the surface of your skin but Jonson’s insides are burning. He’s spent the past hour practising free kicks and penalties, though it’s redundant given Jordi had left, stating - God Jonno, you’re mental. Am I allowed to go yet? ****

He’d let him go, reluctantly, and it’s just him and the ground staff left, punting balls at an empty net. He should stop. He knows he should stop. He knows - but he can’t, filled with an immovable desire to get better and better and better.

Eventually, gone 6 o’clock, Jonson relents, sluggishly traipsing back and forth across the grass until all the balls are back in the bag and the only thing for the ground staff to do is put the nets away. 

The lights in the corridor are still on, which Jonson expects given the amount of people still milling about. What Jonson doesn’t expect, however, is the light in the changing room, white glow spilling out onto the yellow tinted linoleum, door cracked open. Jonson quickly runs through the potential trespassers in his head: Nicho? No. He  _ always _ does dinner with Meg on a Wednesday. Tom? No. He would’ve stayed outside if he really wanted to and gone home with Jonno. Josh? Maybe, but it’s unlikely. He would’ve offered himself to Jonno - practice crossing and all that. There are a few more likely suspects that Jonson is considering but the sound of something plastic - shower gel? - hitting the floor cuts off his thoughts.

He  _ so _ nearly goes charging in - when he hears a cut off giggle, like someone forcing themselves to stop. Jonson stills, straining his ears, shifting closer to the gap in the door. There’s another murmur, soft enough that Jonson doesn’t recognise it but loud enough that he hears it. Feeling slightly like a voyeur, Jonson peers through the crack, praying he doesn’t catch the eye of any inhabitants. He feels like one of the fucking Spy Kids.

Jonson swallows down a noise of surprise at the sight he’s faced with: Ollie with his back against the wall and Luke in front of him, one hand palm down on the wall and the other curled around the jut of Ollie’s hip. The angle of the door to the wall means that there’s no way either of them could possibly see Jonno without actively trying to, although even if they could, it wouldn’t matter one bit - especially with the way they’re looking at each other right now. Like nothing else exists in the world, like nothing else ever has or ever will. 

Jonson can’t say he’s that surprised, though he always thought that if anyone else on the team was shagging they would at least be as subtle as him and Tom - not having a snog in the unlocked changing rooms where anyone could see them. Ollie and Luke though, have been thick as thieves since the latter signed in July - arms slung around each other and grinning and laughing about fuck knows what. Or like when Jonno walked in on them away at Blackpool in the hotel - Ollie sat on the end of his bed, breathing in large inhales like he was trying to swallow the world whole, mumbling about captaincy and pressure and other incoherent ideas that Luke clearly understood more than Jonno because he was knelt in front of him, an elbow on Ollie’s knee and a hand on his cheek. Thumb stroking the skin under his eye, the hollow space underneath the brow bone, murmuring reassurances. Jonson backed out of the room slowly before either of them had seen him.

Now, both looking significantly less serious but no less wrapped up in each other, Ollie says something - whispers - and Luke breaks out in a fit of giggles, presses his face into the crook of Ollie’s neck. Muffled laughter against the slippery fabric of his tracksuit. Ollie grins, laughing softly and brings his hand up to Luke’s hair, shaking through the force of Luke’s amusement. 

“Shu’ up,” Luke mumbles happily, head tilted up to meet Ollie’s eyes. “Dunno why I put up with you.”

“Yeah you do,” Ollie says purposefully, sparkle in his eyes. Jonno knows that look; it’s the look Tom gives him when he hands Jonno the cuppa he’s just made, the twinkle in Nicho’s eye when his phone buzzes with his ringtone for Meg.

Luke stands up straight but doesn’t move back. “Yeah,” He says, tongue darting out, wetting his lips. “I do.”

Jonson swallows from where he’s still hidden, so loud he’s sure Luke’s head will swivel right around - but it doesn’t. 

Instead, Luke brings both of his hands up and places them - firmly - on either side of Ollie’s chest, fingers spread wide. The corner of his mouth twitches up into a half grin - “You really are something, aren’t ya?” - words slurred together in a mess of Midlands inflections that reminds Jonson of his adolescence.

Ollie just grins wide, teeth bared, and leans forward to press a kiss to Luke’s cheek, soft and purposeful. He hums against the skin, mouthing along the line of his jaw until he reaches the corner of Luke’s mouth, pausing. Luke pulls back, minutely, to raise an eyebrow at Ollie.

Then several things happen at once. Luke brings Ollie in, hands grasping fitfully at each side of the unzipped jacket, sliding down to grip Ollie’s waist. It’s a hard looking kiss, forceful and strong, but it softens after that - hand weaving itself into Luke’s hair, the other on the back of his neck. It’s the picture of pure affection.

Jonson eventually pulls his eyes away as Luke’s hands inch downwards and his thumbs dip into the waistband of Ollie’s joggers. His shoes squeak against the shiny flooring the whole length of the corridor, nearing the car park with every step. 

He can get his stuff tomorrow.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> xx


End file.
